She tells me I am strange
I see the face of death
in yawns of old men
a sly wink of the eye
because we both know
how ashes are made

She tells me I am strange
I would rather barter
with a sleeping hour
to sift through words
for diamonds
feeding a passion
worth more
than hope
more colorful
than green

I am strange
because I watch images
burn with fury
into the TV screen
how the war
is won in Hollywood
even I walk
with a spare blood capsule
in my cheek
in case I want to bleed
this is the theme-song
for our next America

I am strange
because the only cowboys
I see riding guns ablaze
to save the day
are artists
who don’t give a shit
tongues wet
with words and surprise
the pen is no longer a sword
it's a f***ing gun
change is in the crosshairs
right between the eyes
and I am trigger-happy